Double Entendre
by Danae.Jenx
Summary: He composes under a pseudonym. She writes under a MALE penname. In letters, they are friends. In real life, they barely tolerate each other. What happens when both are invited to the Royal Masquerade? Warning: SERIOUS Insanity in later chapters. EOC
1. Lessons

**A bit of context for the first-time reader:**

**This story takes place several years after the Paris fiasco, in a town called Creteille (located close to Paris).**

**Erik has been leading a quiet and reclusive lifestyle, composing under the pseudonym Ogdenheim. His peace is short-lived, however, when he begins fulfilling a promise to his late friend Andre Cosina by giving piano lessons to Andre's twin sister, Fernanda Marie Cosina.**

**EOC. Not EC. Border-line parody. This basically pokes fun at every character.evil, _evil_ laughter**

**Many thanx so much to my faithful readers / reviewers! **

Chapter 1: Lessons

Fernanda is about to lose herself in the _Piano Sonata_ when her playing is jolted by the sharp bark of her teacher. "Enough!"

As usual, he sits a ridiculous distance away, hovering over the second Steinway like a tiger, glaring at her from beneath the mask.

She wonders if he growls this way at everyone, or whether he saves this voice especially for her. Somehow, she doesn't remember Andre's letters mentioning any snarling.

At the moment, however, he looks as though he is ready to tear out his hair.

"Mademoiselle, have you ever heard the bleating of a _lamb_?" he finally asks.

Fernanda shakes her head.

"Have you ever heard the croaking of a _toad_?"

Again, she shakes her head.

"Have you ever heard the squealing of _pigs_?"

Her brow furrows. "Monsieur, I fail to see—"

"_My _point," he hisses, "is that you have heard _all_ these things. Every one of these revolting sounds is _exactly_ what's in your playing. If you had any _ears_ at all, you'd hear what a terrible squawking you're making! Why, I'd go deaf if I had to endure any more of it! As for your posture, it's preposterous. Your sound is sickening. And your pedal—_If_ your foot paid any attention to what your fingers were doing, _perhaps_ one would be able to call it _music_ you are butchering!"

Erik hasn't felt this irritable in a long time. But then, he generally avoids contact with anyone who would qualify as a "mademoiselle". After all, they're silly, stupid, giggly creatures—not at all good for a serious composer like himself.

_She will become disinterested in her music once she finds someone to marry_, he tells himself again and again._ She'll marry and quit. Then, I will be rid of this damnable debt. _

Pushed toward the back of his brain is the nagging fact that Fernanda has been studying with him for two years, has emerged as one of Europe's finest pianists, and shows no signs of quitting.

"Will I be able to hear some of your own compositions, Monsieur Delavroe?" she suddenly asks, completely unaffected by his ranting.

It would have been easier if she sounded whiny, but her voice is as smooth and melodious as dark velvet.

Erik scowls.

"Andre always wrote of them," she adds with a disgustingly hopeful smile on her face.

_As though her twin brother has not done enough!_ he thinks savagely. "Mademoiselle, the answer is no. It will always be no."

She nods, watching Erik closer than he likes. Her eyes are dark, guarded by thick lashes.

"This lesson is over." His jaw sets.

She continues to sit at the piano as though she belongs as much as the curtains, the carpet, the chairs. "But Monsieur, we didn't go over the Chopin."

Erik's mouth works uselessly. "The lesson is an hour," he states stupidly.

Fernanda blinks. "A half hour more," she insists, reaching for her purse. "I can pay."

Erik quickly shuts his mouth, which had somehow fallen open. He has not deprived her of a single franc. "Mademoiselle—"

"Fernanda," she interrupts. "You and my brother got along well enough."

"_Mademoiselle_," he seethes, "your money does not interest me. Now if you wish for these lessons to continue, I suggest you _leave._" By the end of the phrase, his voice has taken a dangerous edge, a habit he has worked for years to purge.

Fernanda abruptly stands, closing the distance between them with three quick steps. Her hand reaches toward him, and Erik panics, his hand clamping down on his mask. She lightly touches his shoulder.

"I know my brother's death affects you as it does myself," she says quietly, her breath close to his ear, "but you are a _fool_ to think you are the only one."

A click of her shoes, and she is gone.


	2. Fool's Gold

Chapter 2: Fool's Gold

"What terrible, merciless music," an elderly woman whines in an unnaturally loud voice.

Erik stipulates that the woman is going deaf and because of this, she assumes everyone else is going deaf as well.

"I want to cry and scream at the same time, but the music doesn't allow me," the lady wails. "It doesn't even permit me to breathe."

"But Estelle," the man sitting next to her protests, "don't you think it's extraordinary the way Ogdenheim has built his harmonies on fractals? Do you not hear the intervallic beauty, the rhythmic asymmetries, the implications of the _klangfarbenmelodie_ to the overall form? Why, the interval of the major third is perhaps the basis for the entire piece!"

Erik snorts, amused by the display of such intellectual bullshit. With the hat and flesh-colored mask, Erik is able to sit in the back of the concert hall without attracting too much attention. Only ten more minutes before intermission will be over. 

Suddenly, he feels someone tap him on the shoulder. He nearly loses his wig as he whips around to see two eyes regarding him curiously.

Fernanda stands in the aisle, smiling widely. "And how do you do, Monsieur Delavroe?"

In the elegant, gold dress, Fernanda would make Helen of Troy look like a hag. Even the old, garrulous couple has stopped to regard the girl in gold.

Erik tears his eyes away, before discreetly wiping away a drop of drool.

"I see the seat next to you is empty. Surely you don't mind if I sit with you," Fernanda says, plopping herself down.

_Insolent whelp!_ He'll have to ask her to move in order to leave.

"That last piece was breathtaking," Fernanda continues brightly, "by a certain Pierre D. Ogdenheim. I wonder what the D. stands for? Is it true that the composer never attends performances of his own music?"

"Quite true, Mademoiselle," the woman named Estelle chirps. "He has not made one single public appearance, not even to listen to his own music. But all of Europe is mad about him. I can't see why. The music is perfectly dreadful."

Erik groans.

"Really, Estelle—" the elderly man protests.

"My dear Louis, music should be beautiful, but Ogdenheim is ugly. Grotesque, excessive, and utterly inhuman!" Estelle screeches.

"His is the most beautiful music I have ever heard," Fernanda declares.

The couple turns to regard Fernanda.

"Mademoiselle, pardon our manners," the man says, "I am Louis Depont, and this is my wife, Estelle Depont."

"I am Fernanda Marie Cosina."

"Cosina, as in the French-Italian pianist?" Monsieur Depont wonders. "Are you by any chance related to him?"

"Her," Fernanda corrects with a charming smile, "I am her."

"I've heard even the _angels_ descend from the _heavens_ to hear your playing!" gushes Madame Depont.

Fernanda's smile widens. "Why thank you...but all the credit goes to my esteemed piano teacher."

"Oh?" Madame Depont asks, "and who is he?"

"Why don't we let the man speak for himself?" Fernanda grins, turning toward Erik.

Erik suppresses the overwhelming urge to roar. He manages in the flattest voice possible, "Erik Delavroe."

Despite his efforts, Monsieur and Madame Depont are entranced by the unearthly beauty of his voice. "Enchantée," Madame Depont squeaks, holding out a gloved hand.

Erik frowns.

There is an uncomfortable silence as Madame Depont withdraws her hand.

"Monsieur, I have never heard such a magnificent voice as yours," Monsieur Depont begins awkwardly. "Do you sing?"

Erik hisses, "I certainly do not!"

The old man immediately falls silent, his wife looking on in dismay.

"You don't sing, Monsieur?" Fernanda asks, her eyes wide and innocent. "But Andre's letters—"

"Quiet, my dear, the curtain's rising," Erik snaps, glad the intermission is finally ending.

"Oh, and what is next?" Madame Depont tugs on her husband's sleeve. "Another Ogdenheim! I do hope it's not as monstrous as the last!"

Erik clenches his jaw.

"What do _you_ think of Ogdenheim, Monsieur?" Fernanda whispers.

Erik regards her icily. "Were I to _waste_ the effort thinking of the _man_, Mademoiselle, I would hardly concentrate on the _music._"

"I was asking about his _music_," Fernanda whispers in an infuriatingly calm manner, "but still, I would be very interested to know the _man_ who would write such passionate _music_."

"You consider what many call 'cold' and 'inhuman', passionate?" Erik cannot help but wonder.

"Why yes," Fernanda replies reverently, "because all the emotion is latent and subtle. That is what makes the music so powerful."

Erik remains silent.

"I also find it interesting," she continues, "that a German's music could sound so French."

"Surely you have heard that music is a _universal_ language, Mademoiselle."

"But we are living during nationalistic times, are we not?"

Erik snorts. "If you think that this Ogdenheim cares anything about sounding French, Bulgarian, Balinese, Basque, or Hungarian, then you know nothing of artists at all."

"Oh, and how would _you_ know what does or does not concern Ogdenheim, Monsieur?" she challenges.

"Only that, Mademoiselle, if he is the great artist everyone pretends he is, he would not give a _damn_ about dogma, whether it is political, national, religious, ethical, or otherwise." Erik glares daggers at her, daring for her to disagree.

Fernanda only shrugs.

That is when Erik realizes the music has already begun, and it is the first time he has ever missed the beginning of his own piece.


	3. Wolves

Chapter 3: Wolves

Forty minutes later, the concert is over, and Fernanda is chatting idly with Monsieur and Madame Depont.

"The choir was _magnifique_, was it not?" Fernanda says.

"Terribly powerful, Mademoiselle," Monsieur Depont replies.

"And when the horn entered—" Fernanda continues.

Erik rises dramatically, his cloak billowing out behind him, his impressive height casting a shadow upon Fernanda. If there were background music to accompany this action, the Batman theme comes to mind. "Excuse me," he interrupts in a super deep voice.

She looks at him with wide doe-eyes, "But Monsieur, will you not wait and escort me home?"

Erik deflates like a balloon. "Surely, Mademoiselle, you can return home the same way you arrived. I do not remember _escorting_ you to the concert. Until your next lesson, I bid you adieu."

Before anyone can react, he steps over Fernanda in the most elegant manner, and exits the hall.

"Wait!" Fernanda calls out, running after him, but he is nowhere in sight.

Erik glares at her from the shadows, as she searches for him among the crowd. He ought to leave, letting the girl make her own way home. Still, he lingers. _If it weren't for her damned brother, I'd leave her to the wolves_.

He is surprised to see the look of genuine hurt on her face, as she gives up her search. A moment later, the Deponts appear and lead her outside to their carriage. Erik sighs, about to leave, when he notices Fernanda refuse their offer.

"Really, I only live a few blocks away," he hears her say. "No, on a night like this, I prefer to walk."

As she heads off in the street, Erik trails behind, cursing silently.

* * *

Somehow, Fernanda cannot help but feel disappointed, returning alone to her home a few blocks away. She had been so certain Monsieur Delavroe would see to her safety. The masked man was absolutely infuriating, a stark contrast to the person Andre had portrayed in his letters. "Erik will take care of you," Andre had written, "he will see that no harm befalls you." How could her twin have so poorly misread him? 

Her _respectable_ piano teacher is so clearly an oaf.

The night air is cool and crisp upon her brow, and she pauses a moment to take in the stars. She loves walking at night, the nocturnal air cleansing her mind.

Two blocks later, Fernanda is chastising herself for refusing to ride the carriage with the Deponts.

After all, she should have known that she'd be a perfect candidate for the classic female-abduction scene. She's unarmed, beautiful...and hasn't acquired the necessary martial art skills which are more and more popular among 21st century heroines, particularly Asian ones.

Anyway, some thug has pinned her to a wall, a knife at her throat, his drunken whisper in her ear, "Where is your goddamn money, Missy?"

Suddenly, she hears a terrible snap and feels the man pulled off her. This miraculous, though murderous, feat is of course accomplished by Erik, whose rescue of Fernanda is accompanied by background music which sounds suspiciously like the theme of the Lone Ranger, also known as the William Tell Overture.

Fernanda, however, is too busy being shocked to hear any of the music. She lets out a gasp as the man falls limp at her feet, his eyes bulging senselessly. She finds herself staring into two glowing eyes (which, in her fear, she does not recognize belong to Erik) before she turns and flees the rest of the way home.

Fernanda does not realize she's been pounding against the door, after failing to locate her keys, until someone turns her around and shakes her, "Fernanda, dammit, _stop!_"

She freezes.

Erik is holding her so tightly, Fernanda can feel him trembling with rage. "You stupid, _stupid_ girl!" he mutters over and over again, before abruptly releasing her and thrusting something into her hands.

Her house keys.

Numbly, Fernanda opens the door, throws down her purse, before sinking into a chair, shaking.

Erik follows stiffly, shutting the door behind him. "Where is your maid?"

Fernanda does not answer, instead trembling uncontrollably.

"Where is your maid?" he demands again.

"Sh-she left," Fernanda stutters.

"_Left?_" Erik bellows.

"I c-could no l-longer afford to k-keep her." Fernanda is mortified when Erik struts around the house like an overgrown rooster, observing the dirty dishes and clothing, the emptiness of the icebox.

"When?" he barks.

Fernanda jumps. "W-when?"

"When did she leave?"

"A-about two m-months ago," Fernanda replies.

Erik is deathly silent. After another long moment, he speaks again, this time his voice is soft and dangerous. "You are eager to pay for _piano lessons_, yet you do not have _a scrap of food?_"

Fernanda remains silent.

"You have been living _alone_ for _two months_, attend a concert_ by yourself, _then _insist on walking home by yourself at night?_"

Fernanda chews on her lower lip.

"You stupid, _stupid_ fool of a child! Were it not for your brother, I would not bother wasting my efforts! Are you so eager to join your brother that you would put yourself in such danger!"

His words strike her deeply, and something within her snaps. She is shaking with rage when she stands and meets him face-to-face. "How. _Dare. _You," she spits.

They glare furiously at each other, wondering whose eyes will pop first from their sockets.

Finally, Erik releases a frustrated breath, noticing for the first time, her bruised hands, clenched tightly at her sides. "Give me your hands," he orders.

Fernanda does not move.

"Your hands, Fernanda," Erik grumbles, "you have bruised them."

Slowly, Fernanda offers her hands.

Erik takes off his gloves and takes her hands within his own, gently unclenching her fingers.

"Can you feel this?" Erik touches her pinky.

Fernanda shakes her head.

Erik sighs, "You have broken two of your fingers. I will have to properly bandage your hands. I don't suppose you have any bandages in your house?"

Again, Fernanda shakes her head.

"Very well," he continues, "there is a spare room in my house. You will reside there until you are healed. My servants will make sure you are cared for properly."

"And what of my lessons? When will I be able to play the piano again?" Fernanda asks, a note of panic in her voice.

"Your hands _will _heal," Erik replies, "but you must not touch the piano for six weeks. If you attempt to play before you are completely healed, you may never be able to play again. Do you understand?"

Wearily, Fernanda nods.

"Good," he mutters, "now let us leave."


	4. Cher Erik

Chapter 4: Cher Erik (At Erik's)

The following morning, Erik awakens to singing birds. It is not uncommon for him to rise early after a long night, as he is lucky to get any sleep at all. His hand automatically moves to rub his eyes, and he notes the crusty residue of last night's tears.

It seems the only time he allows himself to mourn is during sleep.

He had not planned on last night. After he had bandaged Fernanda's hands and ordered his servant, Marta, to see his student off to bed, Erik brought all traces of his compositions, and anything else he did not wish to be seen around the house, into his room.

He should not have said those words last night.

With a groan, Erik gets up and shuffles into the bathroom, washing the stickiness from his face. He has already decided to work on the Cello Concerto during the time Fernanda stays in his home. It is least likely piece of Ogdenheim's that she would hear, as it is to be premiered in London.

His room will remain locked at all times during Fernanda's stay.

Andre's death had been so sudden two years ago. He had been like a brother to Erik, sharing his passion for music. They had spent many nights playing cello and piano duos and discussing the newest compositions. Andre had asked not a single question of Erik's past, but had mentioned his twin sister Fernanda many times. "You must meet my twin sister," Andre said eagerly. "She'll be returning in two years' time."

Neither of them knew that Fernanda would return only a month later, leaving her studies in Rome unfinished, to attend her brother's funeral.

Erik bathes in a leisurely manner. He is very meticulous about cleanliness. He does not mind a little messiness, but refuses to tolerate filth. Stepping out of the tub, Erik dries his face before smearing on a thin coating of ointment. The balm is his own concoction, and he had worked for months to perfect its formula. It has provides some comfort to the skin beneath his mask, preventing it from forming a rash. During his attempt to heal Andre, Erik had updated himself on the latest medical and scientific practices.

He had failed to save Andre's life.

Leaving the towel by the door, Erik contemplates the best top-bottom combinations before dressing. Were it not for his _esteemed_ guest, he would walk around the house in his underwear. Placing on his mask, he exits his room, absently locking the door behind him, before making his way downstairs.

All the baths in the world would not rid him of the blood on his hands.

The mute boy Edwardo is already awake, intercepting Erik's path to the music room and gesturing to the kitchen. _Would you like tea, coffee, waffles, fruit?_

Erik sighs. His servants are forever worrying about his health, but he is in no mood to eat. "Later," he tells Edwardo, catching the disappointment in the young man's eyes, "but since you already made the food, why don't you and Marta enjoy it? And do be certain to feed the Mademoiselle when she awakes." He disappears into the music room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

It is a highly unconventional manner, the way Erik interacts with his servants, but they are loyal and accustomed to his eccentricities. They have served him for years, including the time Andre was alive.

Sitting at the Steinway, Erik warms up with several scales before beginning with Bach's _Goldberg Variations_. The _Goldberg Variations_ were composed for a man who wished to have music to lull him to sleep. _How fitting,_ Erik muses, _that one who cannot sleep plays music which is meant to be slept to._ Of course, the listener who would sleep through such a piece is a fool—but at least, a happy, ignorant fool.

He begins with this piece because he does not wish to disturb the sleeping girl upstairs.

Under his penname Ogdenheim, Erik composes mostly instrumental music. If he must compose for voice, he uses Latin liturgical texts. He is, by far, not a religious man. God could go to hell as far as he is concerned. Religious texts, however, are far less personal than poetry. A group of voices are less intimate than a solo voice.

He has not composed an opera since his days in Paris.


	5. Royal 'Rat

Chapter 5: Royal 'Rat

Five hours later, Erik is working on his Cello Concerto when someone raps on the door. Flipping the manuscript facedown, he rises to open the door.

Fernanda stands, regarding him crossly. "Are you going to ignore me all day, or tell me what to do?"

Erik frowns, his mind still on his music. "There is a library to the left of the hall," he says dismissively.

"I've been there for hours. Surely, you don't expect me to spend all day with my nose in a book. Just attempting to flip pages with these bandages is bad enough," Fernanda fumes.

Erik looks away, slightly embarrassed. It didn't occur to him what he should do with her. "What do you usually do during the day?" he blurts.

"I practice, draw, write letters, sew, cook, improvise at the piano, paint, garden…"

As she rattles off a list of her activities, Erik looks longingly toward the piano. "Don't you socialize, have friends to visit?" he mumbles.

"Socialize? Not when I'm talking to a wall?" Fernanda scoffs. "Don't _you_ have any friends to visit?"

Erik blinks, before quickly recovering. "I'm busy," he snaps.

"I can't do anything I normally do with my hands bandaged up," Fernanda retorts.

_You can sing_, Erik thinks, but does not say. Then, the solution hits him. _ Of course! There's a topic many despise—especially talented but spoiled brats who believe themselves musicians. She'll be bored to tears. _

"Very well," he says coolly, "you shall learn music theory and analysis."

Fernanda's eyes brighten. "You will teach me those?"

"Yes!" Erik exclaims, before quickly continuing, "But you must promise never again to interrupt me when I am composing."

"When will we begin?"

"This evening."

Fernanda remains quiet, and Erik can feel her mind working. "This evening, I will go out for a stroll."

Erik's eyes narrow. "A _stroll?_"

"Well, I won't be alone if Monsieur accompanies—"

"Have you learned nothing from yesterday's incident," Erik interrupts.

Fernanda regards her fingernails. "You asked what I do during the day, but you didn't ask what I do at night. Why, evening strolls are the highlight of my days."

"Mademoiselle," Erik growls, "if _evenings_ are the highlight of your _day_s, then I dare not ask what is the highlight of your _nights_. If you insist on roaming the streets after dark, I will lock you in your room."

Fernanda flushes indignantly. "In that case," she haggles, "I will return to my home. Surely, you can't keep me here as a prisoner against my will."

"And how do you expect to take care of yourself?"

"I've been doing exactly that for ten years—"

"Eight out of those ten," Erik spits, "your brother was supporting you. Now, he's gone. You can hardly expect to survive in that rat-hole of yours!"

"Rat-hole?" Fernanda exclaims, truly offended. "You call my home a _rat-hole_?"

"Well, this place is certainly more hospitable, Mademoiselle."

"It could be a palace for all I care," Fernanda huffs, "when one hides in the dark…like a _rat_."

"What!" Erik bellows. "As though _you _live like the Queen herself!"

"Rather I live like a _queen_ in a _rat-hole,_ than a ­_rat_ in a queen's _palace_!"

The breath is knocked out of her, as she is thrust against a wall. She cannot move, cannot budge one millimeter!

"You had better be grateful to your brother," Erik whispers, in an eerie tone she has never heard before, "that you have no idea who you are dealing with. You will stay here until you are completely healed. You shall have your _evening _strolls during the _day_. You shall have your daily lessons during the _evening_. Good _day_, Mademoiselle."

Shoving her out into the hall, he slams and locks the door.


	6. Evening's Troll Evening Stroll

(Note for those unfamiliar with the Phantom lore: Ayesha is Erik's cross-eyed Siamese cat).

Chapter 6: Evening's Troll / Evening Stroll

That evening, Fernanda is pacing the hall, wondering when Erik will open that _detestable_ door. He's locked himself in the entire afternoon, and Fernanda is bored, bored, bored.

_Miserable man!_ she storms. _Lecherous lout! Odious ogre! Bullying boar! Waspish worm! _

So caught up in her fuming, Fernanda unwittingly steps on the tail of a cross-eyed Siamese, which gives a yowl so shrill that Fernanda jumps, bumping into a marble statue, which falls into the mahogany coat rack, which rams into a nearby lamp, which knocks a painting off the wall.

All—Fernanda included—come crashing down in a chaotic, calamitous tumble.

Marta and Edwardo come running, freezing in horror at the sight. It's their master's favorite painting, the one of the pretty, blue-eyed opera singer—crushed and cracked beneath the lamp!

A sudden silence sweeps over the house, as all eyes turn toward the music room.

There's a click, a whoosh as the door opens, and a snarl—

"What in blazes is all this racket?"

Ayesha, the Siamese, yawns and stretches, before slinking into the kitchen.

Erik's eyes move to the statue, the coat rack, the lamp, lingering on the painting…before narrowing on Fernanda. His jaw clenches. "Out!"

Fernanda scrambles to her feet, gathering her skirts.

Marta speaks up, "Monsieur, please—"

_"OUT!" _Erik roars.

Less than a minute later, Fernanda is outside, strolling down the street, enjoying the cool, crisp air.

When she arrives at her beloved 'rat-hole' fifteen minutes later, a slow satisfied grin spreads over her features.

"Oops…"


	7. Special Delivery!

(Note for those unfamiliar with the Phantom lore, Nadir Daroga the Persian is Erik's friend).

Chapter 7: Special Delivery

Shortly after Fernanda leaves, Erik releases a string of curses too complicated and foul to be written for adults who are younger than the negative numbers.

Picking the broken painting of Christine from the mess, Erik leaves his servants to clean up the rest. He brings the painting into the library, sinking into the sofa, gazing longingly at the image.

Christine has a crack zigzagging down the center of her face.

The cross-eyed Siamese hops into his lap, and Erik absently strokes her fur. He sighs and sighs and sighs. "Oh _Christine…_"

The Siamese abruptly stops purring. Arching her back, she pauses to consider the painting, before swatting it out of Erik's hand.

Outraged, Erik curses, "You devil! You're on _her_ side as well? I feed you, brush you, keep you company all day and night, and this is how you repay me!" He picks up the painting, placing it on the top shelf where no one—not even the cat—can touch it.

Ayesha nudges Erik's leg, purring apologetically.

"I fail to understand your feline possessiveness," Erik murmurs after a few moments. "There is no member of that despicable sex who would—"

"Talking to the cat again?" a familiar voice interrupts.

Erik doesn't bother looking up, lapsing into Persian. "Nadir, don't you knock?"

"Do _you_ ever knock?" counters the Persian.

Erik snorts. "I assume you snuck past the servants."

"Your security leaves much to be desired," Nadir suggests.

"Don't look so smug, Daroga," Erik mutters. "Your clumsy attempt to climb the gate could have woken the entire neighborhood."

"But it didn't," Nadir points out.

"To what honor, do I bestow this visit?" asks Erik, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I have your mail, including a letter, from His and Her Majesty of Prussia."

"What the devil do they want?"

"You're always so agreeable, Erik," the Persian comments, tossing a bag onto the sofa. "Your letters."

Erik looks dismissively at the bundle. "I'll look at them later."

"The King and Queen need an immediate response."

"They'll be lucky if they receive any at all," Erik retorts.

Nadir sighs, "My dear Erik, what is bothering you this time?"

"Nothing, Daroga," Erik replies stiffly. "My social skills are merely out of practice, given I have always had such _wonderful_ opportunities to exercise them. Would you like some tea, coffee…?"

The Persian looks at him curiously. "You're avoiding the issue."

Erik stubbornly remains silent.

"Alright," Nadir sighs, "let's have some tea."

The two sit in the kitchen, Marta serving them their drinks. Erik ventures, "How is Antoinette?"

"She's well," Nadir responds. "Meg has been hired as the principal ballerina of the Paris Ballet."

"Antoinette must be proud. Is she still working at the new opera house?"

"Yes, she's told me the management is still interested in commissioning an opera by Ogdenheim." Nadir pauses to sip his tea. "I think that's also in one of your letters."

Erik looks away. "Ogdenheim does not compose operas, especially for _that _opera house."

The Persian shakes his head. "After all these years, Erik, truly you do not—"

"Daroga, I think I've made my position perfectly clear."

Nadir is silent for a while before asking, "How are Mademoiselle Cosina's lessons going?"

Erik shrugs, "Well enough. The girl was foolish enough to break her fingers, so I have a month and a half break while she recovers."

"That must be devastating for her." Nadir frowns, "She's not a girl, Erik, anymore than Andre was a boy."

"That's different, and you know it," snaps Erik.

Nadir looks up in surprise. "Oh? And how are you two getting along?"

"We are not."

"You've been doing fine for the past two years," the Persian comments.

Erik grinds his teeth. "That was before she began asking questions."

"Yes, Erik, that tends to be what intelligent people do," mumbles Nadir.

"Fernanda's not intelligent. She's a Pandora. A _prying_ Pandora."

"I dimly remember you calling Christine—"

"The _Comtesse_ is different, Daroga. Do not speak to me of her."

"Erik, she's happy."

"So am I," Erik mutters bitterly.

Nadir watches Erik over the brim of his teacup. "You are?"

"I live a quiet life. I have my music. I've found my peace, have I not?"

The Persian does not reply.

Finally, Erik speaks, "Fernanda has been living alone in that miserable shack of hers. Apparently, she's run out of money."

"Why don't you invite her here?"

"You think I haven't thought of that?" Erik hisses. "The foolish girl _was _here. She can't be left alone for _one_ day without making a mess of things. She tried insisting on going out for a promenade every evening _after_ I saved her from an assault _last_ night. She argues with me at every opportunity. She interrupts my composing sessions. She chips my Beethoven bust, cracks my coat rack, shatters my porcelain lamp, _crushes _Christine's painting. _You tell me what the hell I should do!_"

Nadir's eyes widen. "Allah! How'd she manage all that?"

"You're not helping," Erik grumbles.

"Surely it was an accident," Nadir prompts. "I can't imagine Mademoiselle Cosina going on a tantrum."

"Marta said she tripped on Ayesha. Oh yes, how can I forget. She steps on my cat."

Nadir regards Erik thoughtfully. "Well, Andre certainly wouldn't have wanted his sister starving."

"I only promised him music lessons. Strictly lessons, Nadir!"

"What did she do, Erik?" the Persian asks quietly. "Did she ask about the mask?"

"No," replies Erik flatly, "but she broke Christine's painting."

"That was an accident."

Erik's hands roll into fists. "She asked to hear my compositions."

"Yours or Ogdenheim's?"

"Mine. His. They're all the same."

Nadir shrugs. "So? As long as she doesn't make the connection—"

"She forced me to introduce myself to a couple of idiots at a concert," Erik blurts.

The Daroga stifles a laugh. "Erik, what would you have had her do? Ignore you the entire time?"

Erik's eyes bulge. "_Yes!_"

Nadir cannot help it. He chuckles.

Erik is deathly silent.

"I think she's only trying to act pleasant toward you," Nadir says reasonably. "The young lady has gone through a lot during the past few years. It is only natural that she attempts to reach out to someone."

Erik manages between clenched teeth. "I'm her teacher. That's all."

"You're her late brother's best friend. You took care of Andre before he died. You treated him like a brother. Fernanda hadn't seen Andre for three years. She leaves her studies unfinished when she hears he is sick. She returns only in time for his funeral."

"You think she suspects me of killing her brother?" Erik spits in disbelief.

"Of course not!" Nadir runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Erik, you're completely missing—"

"Daroga, damn it, be _quiet_."

"If you don't mind me asking, where is Fernanda right now?"

Erik watches him with a murderous expression, his hands wringing the napkin in a similar manner to the way he twists the Punjab lasso.

The Persian falls silent. "What about your letters?"

_"What about them!" _

Another long silence.

Nadir stands, shaking his head. "Tonight, Erik, you are intolerable. I'll be back in the morning."

Erik does not move.

Nadir walks into the foyer to retrieve his hat and coat.

Erik hears the front door shut quietly. When he goes into the library and empties the letters onto the sofa, he realizes his hands are trembling. "Damn, damn, damn, _damn_," he mutters over and over again.


	8. Heroik Erik

Chapter 8: H_er_o_ik_ Erik

The next morning, Fernanda is attempting to bathe herself, but the soap keeps slipping from her bandaged hands. She groans. _At this rate, I'll be washing for the next three hours!_

Two hours later, she steps from the tub…and into a large, deep puddle. Fernanda groans in disbelief. What a mess!

To make matters worse, her towel is completely soaked.

As she stands there dripping, someone raps on the front door. Fernanda panics, scrambling into her bedroom, quickly shutting and locking the bedroom door.

_Not home!_ she wants to yell. _Go away! _

_

* * *

_

Outside, Erik knocks again and again. He is growing more and more alarmed with each passing second. Late that morning, Erik awoke to a series of grotesque and inventive Fernanda-abduction scenarios.

With horror, Erik remembers one such scenario:

_Fernanda is skipping down the street when a blood-red rose catches her eye. As she bends to pick the flower, she finds that she cannot break the stem. Instead, the stem seems to stretch and elongate as she pulls, as though she were drawing string from the ground. Impatiently, Fernanda continues to tug, pull, and yank on the rose. Rather than breaking, the "stem" grows longer and longer, piling in loops at her feet. _

_Fernanda pauses, noting for the first time that the "stem" has begun to resemble…the coils a rope? She stoops closer, getting a better look. Through her eyes, Erik recognizes his Punjab lasso, which strikes out like a snake, and wraps itself around Fernanda's neck! SNAP!_

And so, Erik's wonderfully warped brain coos, _Good morning, Erik,_ with the image of Fernanda's head hanging at an unnatural angle, her tongue dangling from her rosy lips like a dog's, her eyes bulging in the most unladylike manner.

To top it off, a gentle lullaby accompanies the dream sequence, and Erik can hear his own Phantom voice crooning:

"_What an unadulterated deliiiiight,_

_to imagine what could have become _

_of Mademoiselle last niiiiiiight!" _

It is after such dreams when Erik wishes he had a normal mind, which would greet him in the morning with normal images of ordinary people saying ordinary things in ordinary places.

* * *

In the bedroom, Fernanda is shuffling through the closet, looking for something with which she can dry herself. She's afraid all her towels are in the dirty laundry. Actually, nearly all her clothes are in the dirty laundry. She tosses the pink bunny slippers aside, throws a torn rag doll into the air, chucks a moth-eaten sweater onto the ground.

A pile of junk has collected on her bedroom floor when she triumphantly holds out a small, old, but clean…dishrag.

_Ah-ha! _Happily, she begins to dry herself.

* * *

Outside, Erik deftly picks the lock. The front door springs open. His super-sensitive ears notice a suspicious rustling coming from the bedroom.

_A thief!_ he panics. _She's being abducted by a thief! _As he stealthily approaches the bedroom, he wonders why the floor is so wet.

* * *

No longer hearing the obnoxious knocks emerging from the front door, Fernanda begins to hum, assuming the persistent pest has gone. Unsuccessful in her search to find a single item of clean clothing, she curses aloud. "Damn it, now where did I put my clothes?" Then, she remembers.

She left her clothing in the bathroom.

* * *

Erik is about to barge into the bedroom when he hears a sweet humming. He's never heard Fernanda sing before. For a moment, he is stunned, hearing the perfect clarity of her voice.

For the first time, Erik notices numerous puddles of various shapes and sizes leading from the bathroom into the bedroom. His eyes move from the drenched towel on the bathroom floor to the neatly-folded clothing sitting on the toilet lid.

Then he hears a grumble from the other side of the door. "Damn it, now where did I put my clothes?"

The vision of Fernanda futilely attempting to fend off her thief-abductor vanishes in a puff of smoke. Instead, there are other images, ones which make Erik remember just how tight his pants are.

At precisely the same moment, Erik hears a click as the bedroom door is unlocked.

The door begins to open.


	9. The Intractable, but Fallible, Door

Chapter 9: The Intractable, but Fallible, Door

Fernanda jumps as the door slams shut in her face. _What the hell_? She pulls on the doorknob again. The door does not budge. Fernanda lets loose a string of unladylike curses as she yanks, jiggles, and rattles the door. It's quite difficult doing this with bandaged hands, but she'll be _damned _if she's going to stay trapped and naked in her bedroom for the rest of the day!

As the door shakes and shudders, a very mortified Erik hangs on with all his might. He winces at every curse emerging from the bedroom. He never realized Fernanda's vocabulary was so extensive. Sweating beneath the mask, he is relieved when the door suddenly stops quivering.

There is an unnerving silence, and Erik is unsure whether it is safe to make his escape. The last thing he needs is another feminine scream to haunt his dreams. Attempting to deduce Fernanda's position in the room, he presses an ear against the door.

Fernanda extracts a shovel from the pile of closet rubble. She takes the shovel and gives a terrific whack at the door. The door produces a strangely human groan, denting and slightly cracking. Fernanda lifts the shovel again, preparing another killer blow, when suddenly, the door opens a centimeter.

Furiously, Fernanda kicks the door wide open, oblivious to the shadow slipping behind a curtain. She mutters, "Stupid door," before storming into the bathroom to retrieve her clothes.

Behind the curtain, Erik groans. Ever since that tremendous whack to his skull, he keeps hearing chirping birds and seeing stars. Cradling his head in his hands, Erik completely misses his opportunity to see a live, nude woman. Now that Fernanda is up and about the house, Erik wonders how in blazes he will be able to escape. Too bad the window behind him is nailed shut.

Fernanda dresses in a leisurely manner. She's going to have to clean up all these damnable puddles. Humming, she struts around the apartment, mopping up the floor. She gathers together the laundry, slowly dumping the clothes in the tub. She moves into the kitchen, preparing herself some tea. She bustles about the living room attempting to make it somewhat presentable.

_After all, _she snorts, _my _respectable_ piano teacher might decide to visit. _

Nearly all these activities take twice as long their normal duration due to Fernanda's injury.

Erik stifles another groan. It seems he's going to be here for a while. Nadir is probably waiting for him at his house.


	10. Rescued by a Fop

Chapter 10: Rescued by a Fop

Four hours later, Fernanda stiffens as she hears a knock at the door. She suspects it's her masked friend. Expecting to get chewed out, she warily approaches the door.

Fernanda is surprised to see a familiar gentleman standing outside. "Johannes!" she cries in delight, giving a kiss on each of his cheeks.

"My dear Fernanda!" the gentleman exclaims, embracing her.

"Did you try visiting earlier today?" Fernanda asks, wondering if he was the person knocking on her door that morning.

"I only arrived," Johannes replies with a smile.

"Won't you come inside? I can make us some coffee or tea?"

"That would be wonderful, but I have a better idea," Johannes grins.

"And what would that be, dear cousin?"

"Let me take you to La Jardin…There are some friends I would like you to meet." Johannes gives a small, mischievous smile.

Fernanda giggles. "La Jardin! That is much too fancy."

"Not for my belle Fernanda." Johannes takes her hand, about to kiss it, when he notices the bandages. "Mon Dieu, what have you done to your hands?"

"I broke two of my fingers," Fernanda sighs. "Oh Johannes, I don't know how I will be able to survive without being able to play the piano for over a month."

"Fernie, you will be fine." His voice softens. "Andre always said you were the strongest woman he knew."

"Other than Maman," Fernanda murmurs.

"Your mother would have been proud of you," Johannes says tenderly. "You are a wonderful woman. You write beautiful poetry. Your playing alone brings Europe to its knees."

Fernanda sniffs, "I can't play with broken fingers."

"Dearest, how about a stroll by the river? I do remember how you love your walks. Let's continue our conversation there."

"I would love to," Fernanda smiles. "And you must tell me all about your life in Berlin. But first, let me get ready."

"Of course." Johannes waits graciously outside.

Fernanda shuts the door, pinning up her hair and putting on lipstick. She smiles at herself in the mirror. She sprays on her favorite perfume. _L'eau de fleur_, imported from Marseille.

A moment later, she puts on her coat and hat, steps outside, and locks the house. Johannes gently places an arm around her shoulders as they stroll away.

Neither of them notices the front door open and close a second time, as a dark shape silently detaches from the shadows.

* * *

Stiff and sore, Erik limps back to his house without his customary grace. His foot and arm have fallen asleep. _That was certainly an agonizing four hours, _Erik reflects, though his sadistic half is already inspired to create a new type of torture.

It is probably the first time Erik is grateful to a fop. Grudgingly, he realizes that the revoltingly handsome, young fellow had gotten Fernanda out of the house. Erik must have been growing desperate, standing immobilized like a mummy, to have welcomed the presence of a fop!

_Finally_, he thinks, not without some bitterness, _she has found someone. Soon, I will no longer have to tolerate the insolent whelp._

Erik is awfully glad to wear a wig. It simply will not do for the bump—which will sprout like an overgrown watermelon by tomorrow—to be seen by anyone, especially a certain overly-inquisitive student.

He was tempted to follow Fernanda and that _boy_, but is more anxious to return home and work. By the time he reaches his house, his foot is still asleep. Erik shakes his foot in annoyance, hitting it violently against a step.

"Erik, there you are," calls a familiar, but unwelcome, voice. As expected, Nadir stands in the doorway. His brow furrows. "Why are you kicking your front steps?"

"I'm not." Erik lies quickly. "I—only tripped."

Nadir gives him a strange look, before continuing dismissively. "I've been waiting for you all day. Where in blazes have you been?"

"Out!" Erik blurts. "I've been out. If you don't mind, I would like to enter my own house." He shoves Nadir aside, barging in.

Nadir sniffs, his nose wrinkling, as he follows Erik into the library. "You smell like flowers."

Erik rips off the offending cloak. He'll have to ask Marta to wash it. Thoroughly. "I got sprayed…by a _skunk_."

"Oh?"

"Yes, Daroga. A skunk. That's what the little minx is. A skunk."

Nadir shrugs. "I fail to see how a skunk can also be a minx, but I hardly believe a discussion about animals is worth our time."

Erik snorts, opening a drawer, taking out the letters.

"Why, you haven't even opened them yet?"

"Dammit Nadir, if you gave me a letter opener last night. I'm not sure _what_ I would have done with it."

Nadir replies reasonably, "You don't need a letter opener to open a letter, Erik."

"That's beside the point," Erik snaps. He extracts one letter from the pile, breaks the royal seal, and pulls out the note.

* * *

**_To Herr Maestro Pierre Devroe Ogdenheim_**

**_Your presence is hereby requested by His and Her Majesty of Prussia at the Royal Masquerade. Friday, May twenty-seventh, nineteenth hour, at the Palace Garden Promenade. _**

**_Immediate response respectfully requested. _**

**_Herr Colonius Grout _**

**_Ambassador_**

****

**_

* * *

_**

****

Erik scowls, "I _respectfully_ decline. You can tell that Kraut Grout that."

"You can't possibly refuse the King and Queen," Nadir protests.

"And why not? I've had my share of royal rot, shahs, and the like."

"The Queen is rumored to be a huge admirer of your music. Over half of your commissions are from Prussia."

Erik shrugs. "My composing career could go to hell, for all I care."

"Allah! You've come so far, and will throw it all away?"

"There are plenty of ways to make money," Erik retorts. "But it does get tiring continuously switching professions."

Nadir brightens expectantly. "So, you will go?"

"I did not say that," snaps Erik. "Let me think on it. Immediate response be damned."


	11. Fop or Not?

Here is the revised / changed chapter. Things shall proceed slightly different. dana

Chapter 11: Fop or Not?

Enjoying a wonderful afternoon by the river, Fernanda and Johannes walk arm-in-arm to La Jardin.

"So," Fernanda asks, "I am wondering who are these friends of yours that you are so anxious for me to meet?"

"Tsk, tsk," Johannes teases. "It's supposed to be a surprise."

"Oh, you must tell me, cousin dearest!" Fernanda exclaims. "Will there be some dark, dashing gentlemen?"

Johannes grins, "Have I ever failed to introduce you to dark, dashing gentlemen before?"

"I dare say," Fernie mutters, "my _esteemed _piano teacher is a dark man, but he's certainly not gentle, and I don't know about the dashing."

"I must meet this mysterious piano teacher of yours."

"He's an insufferable pig!"

Johannes raises an eyebrow. "Oh? I thought his manner might be…what were your words? Oh yes, like 'night gently unfurling its splendor—' "**1**

"That's quite enough," Fernanda interrupts.

"And that part about his voice…'Floating, falling, sweet intoxication—' " **1**

Fernanda reddens, "Those poems have _nothing _to do with him!"

"Aaah," Johannes grins, his eyes twinkling, "so you _are_ having trouble with your dark muse!"

"He is _not_ my dark muse!" Fernanda denies hotly. "And those words weren't about _him_. Those were merely poems _inspired_ by him."

"So they aren't real, they're merely phantom fantasies?" Johannes rushes in for the killer blow. "What is it, Fernie, did you discover he's a _man's_ man?"

Fernanda gasps, her mouth widening in an 'O' of horror. "Oh no! He can't be, he just can't."

Johannes chuckles, patting Fernanda on the back.

"Actually," squeaks Fernanda, "you might have a point."

Johannes blinks. "My dear cousin, what do you mean?"

"I've been trying to be friendly with him for two years," sighs Fernanda, "but every time he pushes me away. As far as I know, he's never shown the slightest interest in a woman."

"Ah, the confirmed bachelor type…"

"The only thing he cares about is his art," Fernanda spits. "His _damn_ art! You should have seen what a fuss he made after I fell and accidentally broke one of his _precious _paintings, the one of—I think Edwardo was trying to tell me it was a painting of Delavroe's mother. But then, I can never understand that boy's sign language."

Johannes raises an eyebrow. "Of his mother? That's pretty serious!"

"Well, it was the cat's fault!" Fernanda retorts. "She shouldn't have gotten in my way! Apparently, Delavroe _worships_ his mother. But that's not the point. He has this _friend _over quite often, this handsome Persian fellow…Oh, what a fool I've been! What a dominated fool!"**2**

"There, there." Johannes pats Fernanda's shoulder affectionately, "You're a fair lady. Just you wait."**2 **

"Oh look, isn't it loverly?"**2** Fernanda breathes.

Indeed, it is. The fancy exterior of La Jardin awaits them, looking more like a Medieval palace than a restaurant.

Gallantly, Johannes holds the door open for Fernanda, before entering La Jardin himself, grinning mischievously.

* * *

**Footnote 1:** Note that Andrew Lloyd Webber will take these poetic lines over a hundred years later and insert them into his musical. Of course, none of his shrieking fans will realize this, given that Monteclare's poetry is sadly unavailable to the corruption of the public eye, as directed by the poet's will. How ALW got a hold of these lines shall remain forever a mystery—a mystery as profound as the creation of the earth.

**Footnote 2: **How Fernanda managed to slip in lines of G.B. Shaw's _Pygmalion_, better known as LL's _My Fair Lady_,shows the amazing propensity of great artists to "live ahead of their time".


	12. Eat Your Words

Chapter 12: Eat Your Words

At La Jardin, musicians play imported**3**-Parisian jazz, while dancers twirl in the center of the room. The restaurant is dark, lit only by candlelight. If anything, La Jardin is conspicuously chic.

Johannes and Fernanda join an elegant, distinguished-looking couple at a table. "Herr and Frau Grout, this is my cousin, Mademoiselle Fernanda Marie Cosina."

"We are honored to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle," the elderly man replies graciously.

Fernanda stifles a sigh of disappointment. It is obvious they have not heard of her, the pianist.

Herr Grout begins to take Fernanda's hand to kiss it, but is startled when he is met with the most unbecoming bandages. They seem slightly damp to him. He sniffs. Is that a whiff of…laundry lye soap?**4 **

There is an awkward moment before Herr Grout releases Fernanda's hand.

"Herr Grout works as Chief Ambassador to His and Her Royal Highnesses," Johannes explains to Fernanda. "Apparently, the King and Queen have taken a keen interest in the poetry of Ferdinand Monteclare, particularly his collection _Autumn Leaves_."

Fernanda nearly gapes in shock. They have taken an interest in _her _poetry?

"Mademoiselle," Frau Grout turns toward her, "_Autumn Leaves_ is much discussed in Prussia. Are you familiar with it?"

Unfortunately, Fernanda is too busy choking on her drink. She lets loose what sounds embarrassingly similar to a series of dry heaves.

"My dear, I do believe you look a bit red," Johannes observes mildly. "Are you ill?"

Fernanda shoots him a glare of pure venom as she continues to cough.

Frau Grout frowns.

"It is a shame we could not meet Monsieur Monteclare for this visit," continues Herr Grout smoothly, his attention turned toward Johannes. "We would have liked to speak with him in person."

"I was hoping Ferdinand would be here as well," Johannes replies regretfully. "But he is often…indisposed. No doubt the difficulties of old age affect him greatly."

"Is he often ill, Herr Reimann?" Frau Grout inquires, concerned.

Johannes sighs dramatically, "He has a bad case of allergies, often accompanied by a…nasty cough." Saying this, he glances devilishly at Fernanda. "It is a terrible, terrible pity he shies away from social functions as a result of his affliction."

The Prussian couple begin to extend their sympathies toward Monteclare's health. "Oh, the poor man," Frau Grout coos, "having to isolate himself from the rest of the world."

"Indeed," Herr Grout says, "that is a pity."

"I do find Monteclare to be exceptionally sensitively written," Frau Grout comments airily. "His poems are delightfully insightful and wonderfully worldly. It must be an honor to be Monteclare's publisher."

Johannes gives his most charming smile. "It is indeed the highest of high honors a man could receive. I am forever thanking the Lord for making me Monteclare's publisher. I believe it was my destiny, my divine calling, my raison d'être. In the poet's presence, I am the humblest of all men." He jumps when Fernanda kicks him in the foot.

Luckily, neither Grout notices.

"How touching," Frau is sighing. "Pray, tell us, what is the great man like?"

"He speaks very little," Johannes replies after a moment and with great seriousness, "but when he does, one feels as though one were speaking with the wisest man on earth. Why, I remember asking him what to do with my life. My dear Ferdinand replied, 'Hear not the squealing of piglets ; blame not the nostril-flaring of bulls.' And suddenly, I knew exactly what to do with my life."

"How wonderful!" cries the Frau.

Fernanda chokes, standing up and quickly excusing herself. "Messieurs, pardon. I shall return presently," she manages.

Once in the ladies' room, Fernanda roars with uncontrollable laughter.

After a few minutes, she manages to compose herself before leaving the restroom. She's about to return to the table when she spots a familiar figure sitting at the far end of the room. Her eyes narrow.

_It's Monsieur Delavroe…and that…that Persian! _

Fernanda watches as her piano teacher engages in furious debate with his friend. The Persian seems equally frustrated. Just when the conversation seems to take a turn for the worst, the Persian says something which causes Monsieur Delavroe to freeze.

After a tense moment, the masked man sighs, looking very vulnerable, like a lost puppy. Fernanda has never seen him appear that way, so sad and…heartbroken?

It's hard to tell with than damnable mask, but to Fernanda, it seems he gazes tenderly…lovingly…at the Persian. He says something obviously very deep and personal.

Unconsciously, Fernanda bristles, muttering under her breath, "I knew it. They're in love. A lover's quarrel."

She's seen enough!

Fernanda returns to her table, her presence scarcely noticed by the Prussian couple.

"I regret having to end our pleasant conversation," Herr Grout is saying, "but my wife and I must prepare for our trip to Paris. I have a letter to give to Monsieur Monteclare. Herr Reimann, would you be so kind, as his publisher, friend, and editor, to give this to the great man?"

"Why, certainly," Johannes replies graciously, taking the envelope, his curiosity perked.

Herr Grout smiles. "We are grateful indeed for a most enlightening dinner conversation. Let us toast to Monsieur Monteclare."

A few moments later, everyone says their proper farewells and gives their proper handshakes, before going their proper ways.

Once by themselves, Johannes gives the letter to Fernanda, who tears it open with frightening ferocity.

* * *

**_To Herr Poet Ferdinand Monteclare_**

**_Your presence is hereby requested by His and Her Majesty of Prussia at the Royal Masquerade. Friday, May twenty-seventh, nineteenth hour, at the Palace Garden Promenade. _**

**_Immediate response respectfully requested. _**

**_Herr Colonius Grout _**

**_Ambassador_**

**_

* * *

_**

**Footnote 3: **All sheet music was Fed-Ex-ed 1-2-day delivery from the future. Also snuck into the package were hits from ALW's Phantom of the Opera, THE all-time favorite of La Jardin musicians, which, of course, they never played while Erik was present.

**Footnote 4: **For those who do not know what lye is, "lye was locally made from various and sundry caustic ingredients, including fowl droppings, human urine, wood ash, and powdered limestone, mixed down with rainwater to desired strength" (from http/ Lye soap was used to wash clothing in the 19th century.


	13. Mute Persian spells Decoy

Chapter 13: Mute + Persian equals Decoy

The following day, Erik—under the guise of Pierre Ogdenheim—is writing a letter to his dear friend Ferdinand Monteclare.

As Ogdenheim, Erik has been secretly corresponding with the poet for nearly a year. Ferdinand had initiated contact with the Maestro after hearing one of his compositions. Like Erik, Ferdinand refuses to indulge the public and lives as a total recluse.

Ferdinand's musical and personal insightfulness have always impressed Erik, and therefore, he looks forward to Ferdinand's letters with an almost childish enthusiasm. Although neither man has met the other, both men never fail to inspire each other.

As Ogdenheim, Erik feels a freedom he never experiences as himself. Ogdenheim is merely a name, a fake identity, with no connection to his real self. Erik writes as he pleases, finding comfort in being able to divulge some of his more private feelings to the poet, feelings he has not even shared with Nadir.

After all, what has Erik got to lose? It's not as though they will ever meet in person!

Erik begins to write:

* * *

**_My dear Ferdinand, _**

**_I do hope you are well and in good health. You had asked about that pesky little pip-squeak. I saw her last night, clinging to the arm of some gentleman like a leech. Thankfully, she did not see me, so I did not have engage in useless conversation. I am sure you understand how troublesome women can be, being a bachelor yourself. _**

**_Like you, I have avoided social functions like the plague, but there is one which my former love will attend. I find myself suddenly yearning to go. If only I could hold her within my arms one last time, if only I could have one last dance…what I would give for a moment's happiness! _**

**_My friend—no words, no music, no painting could sufficiently describe my love for my angel. I have already written a multitude of letters to you about her, so I will not add more pages to the pile. _**

**_You will not understand when I insist that no woman will have me. Please do not ask me to explain. I cannot. It is but a sad, simple truth. _**

**_I have set the first five poems of Autumn Leaves to song. These are the first songs I have composed in a very long time, but do not expect to hear them performed. Ever. I could not help composing them. Your poems are too beautiful. _**

**_Warmest regards, _**

**_Pierre_**

**_

* * *

_**

Erik rereads the letter before sealing it within an envelope.

Yes, Christine will be at the Royal Masquerade. Erik sighs, remembering his conversation with Nadir the previous evening…

_"If you mention that blasted Masquerade one more time," Erik roared, "I will tear up that invitation into a million pieces, and you shall _never_ hear from me again! How many times must I tell you that I fully intend to refuse? I have already spread rumors that Ogdenheim is mute and therefore unfit to attend social functions! Therefore, His and Her Royal Asses will not be so bloody offended!" _

_That was when Nadir said, "I've heard that the Comte and Comtesse de Chagny have been invited." _

_Erik deflated. "Christine will be there?" he asked in a small voice. _

_Nadir nodded. _

_Erik sighed, his voice deep with love and longing, "If only for one dance…one last dance with my beloved…" _

_There was a long moment. "So, you are going?" _

_Erik gritted his teeth. "Yes, dammit…yes, I'll go…" His eyes narrowed. "But you're coming with me." _

_"Me?" the Persian squawked. "And why do you need _me_?" _

_"You're going to be Ogdenheim, that's why." _

_"_Me?_ Ogdenheim? Ridiculous!" _

_"Well, a mute Ogdenheim will need an 'interpreter' of sign language, won't he?" Erik asked savagely. "It simply won't do having him unable to communicate during the entire event. Furthermore, if I went as Ogdenheim, I won't be able to verbally defend myself in case some _fool_ attempts to unmask me!" _

_"But I don't understand any German!" Nadir whined. "This is getting more preposterous by the minute!" _

_"That is why _I _must do all the talking, precisely because _you_ don't understand any German. And even if you did, I wouldn't trust you to speak for me, anyways." _

_Nadir snorted, clearly offended. "And why not?" _

_"Because you don't understand music, you bloody fool, that's why!" _

_"Well," Nadir griped after a moment, "you're the one who created this ludicrous idea of Ogdenheim being mute." _

_"Actually," Erik shrugged, "it was inspired by Edwardo." _

_Nadir gaped. "Well, why don't you have Edwardo be Ogdenheim?" _

_"Edwardo's a twelve-year-old boy," Erik scoffed. "He hardly looks the part. No, it must be you." _

_"Why can't you go alone as Ogdenheim's representative? Why do you need _me_? Why, oh why, me?" _

_"I don't want all the attention focused on myself," Erik said reasonably. "Really, Nadir, it's quite easy. All you have to do is look serious, dance with good-looking women, and stay silent. We'll sneak out before the unmasking…Why do you have such a disagreeable expression on your face?" _

After much protesting, hedging, and whining, Nadir accepted his inevitable fate four hours later.


	14. Let There Be War Btwn Us Both

Okay, here's the revised 14th chapter. I'm pretty much caught up! No way to move, but forward! Thanx to you all for appreciating my wacky sense of humor...After all, I am one of the voluntarily insane. cheers, dana

Chapter 14: Let There be War Between Us Both!

Back in her cozy cottage, Fernanda is excited about the Ball. It will only be in a few weeks, and she is eager to find a costume. Fernanda will go as Ferdinand's "sister" Josephine, and Johannes will attend as Ferdinand himself.

Unfortunately, Johannes was not thrilled with this idea, but then, Fernanda pointed out, _he_ was the one who came up with that rubbish about Ferdinand being an old man with a coughing affliction.

It is only fair that, after Johannes had played that trick on her by surprising her with that dinner meeting, that Johannes eat his own words and act the part!

Humming to herself, Fernanda fantasizes about the various Princes and Dukes and Counts she might meet. She is dancing to herself, swirling around the room when someone knocks at the door.

Fernanda rushes to the door, a dreamy smile on her face. "Oh Johannes, I do believe—" she begins.

Standing outside is Monsieur Delavroe.

Fernanda's lips tighten into a straight, flat line. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Erik's eyes narrow. "I have come to check on your hands, you ungracious ingrate."

"And what do I have to be grateful for?" Fernanda gives a disagreeable snort. "Have you come to attempt to expel me from my _own_ house this time?"

"The _fact_," Erik bites out, "that your hands are injured does _not_—in any way, manner, or form—excuse you from your musical studies. You have not stopped by for your weekly lesson of music theory and analysis."

Fernanda quirks an eyebrow. "The last time, I remember quite clearly I was not welcome at your house."

"You are most certainly _not_!" Erik's hands spasmodically clench and unclench the cloth of his pants. "BUT your level of playing is so remarkably _low_, I'd rather tolerate you in my house once a week than endure the horrors of your playing, which I will undoubtedly be forced to suffer once you are healed. _You_ play like an abominable airhead. _You_ play with no understanding, no conception of what you are doing. _You_ have no respect for the composer or the score! _You_ use the music in the lowest manner possible, simply for your own ignoble indulgences! _You_ are a lazy fiend! A proud pig!"

Fernanda trembles with rage. "If you're going to spit insults at me all day, then I have better things to do with my time!"

Erik shoves her aside, entering her home. "I've come to change your bandages, and by hell, that is what I _will_ do!"

"Fine," Fernanda hisses, shoving her hands in Erik's face, "here are my hands. Would you like to do the honors of undoing the bandages, or should _I_ do it myself!"

"And how do you propose doing it yourself? It's not as if you have the use of _either_ of your hands!"

"With my teeth, by God!" Fernanda shrieks. "I'll rip them with my _teeth_!" Before Erik can react, she savagely bites the bandages and begins to tear them away.

"Good God," someone gasps from the doorway.

Fernanda turns, a mouthful of bandages streaming down her face. They taste rather revolting. She spits them out.

"Why, hello, Johannes," she says in a perfectly normal voice. "How are you enjoying your day?"

"Who is this _boy_?" Erik seethes.

"That's a gentleman to you, rat, and truly a _gentle _man," Fernanda scoffs.

Unnoticed by either of them, Johannes takes the opportunity to leave, whistling as he exits.

"It is too bad, Mademoiselle Queen of Sheba, that this _gentle _manmust endure such an ill-mannered lout as yourself. Why, what sort of creature are you, that your teeth are as sharp as a piranha's?"

Fernanda begins to turn an unflattering bright red, no doubt preparing to wreak mighty havoc uponthe tall, skeletal figure in front of her. She huffs and puffs, like the big bad wolf about to blow the house down…...except she takes too long inhaling.

Before she can release her Zeus-ian thunder, Erik rips off the rest of the bandages in a one, ferocious movement.


	15. The Big Bad Wolf and the Energizer Bunny

okay, a new chapter is UP, thanx to my terrific reviewers! dana

Chapter 15: The Big Bad Wolf and the Energizer Bunny

For the next fifteen minutes, both Fernanda and Erik give each other the silent treatment.

Erik rips Fernanda's bandages into tiny, tiny pieces.

Fernanda gnashes her teeth like a paper shredder.

"That noise you're making," Erik finally mutters, "by God, it's horrendous."

Fernanda continues to grind her teeth.

Erik struggles with the new bandages, his hands trembling in exasperation. "Dammit."

The paper shredder continues with a relentlessness similar to the Energizer Bunny.

"You have not been taking care of your hands," Erik says, wrapping the new bandages around her hands.

Except for the small twitches of her jaw, Fernanda stares zombie-like at the wall, her hands still frozen in front of her.

Erik waves a hand in front of her face, his brow furrowing when the girl does not react. Not even a blink. "Um…" It comes out as a squeak. Erik clears his throat.

Fernanda turns her carnivorous glare upon him. Slowly, ever so slowly, she gives a malevolent smile, without breaking eye contact.

Erik swallows, suddenly feeling like a piece of meat about to be devoured.

"What fascinating eyes you have," she observes.

_Huh? _Erik blinks.

"What thick hair you have."

Erik's hand moves toward the wig, adjusting it ever so slightly.

"What a strong chin you have."

"Hmmm." Erik scratches his chin thoughtfully.

"What a remarkable mind you have."

A smug grin begins to form on Erik's lips. He'd like to think so.

"How _remarkably_ deranged it is!"

Erik's eyes narrow.

"What a beautiful voice you have."

Erik clears his throat.

"Too bad it's usually _snarling_."

Erik scowls.

Fernanda approaches Erik with a deadly deliberateness. "What glorious confidence you have."

Erik inadvertently steps backward.

"Too bad it's an overblown ego!

A tiny tick in Erik's jaw gives a little pop.

"What a great man you could be!"

Somehow, Erik finds himself backed into a corner.

"Too bad you're more of a great _coward_!"

Like a snake, Fernanda strikes, her hand darting up towards his face and ripping away the offending accessory. 


	16. Bare!

**If you have not read Chapter 15, please read it first !**

Chapter 16: Bare!

Erik roars, feeling the cool air upon his scalp. He is completely bald, bald like a newly-baptized baby, or, if you prefer, a freshly-boiled egg.

"Ha!" Fernanda shrieks, holding the wig triumphantly like a severed head. "I knew such a thick, glorious mane couldn't be real!"

"Give me that!" Erik snaps, swiping the wig away from Fernanda and replacing it on his head in one graceful movement. He huffs past.

Fernanda places her hands on her hips. "You're not going anywhere!"

"I am, too!" Erik shouts back. "I'll be _damned_ if I'm going to be stuck here like the last time!"

Fernanda blinks. "The last time?"

"Ahhh," Erik momentarily stutters, "you know, the night you had broken your fingers pounding on your front door?" He's glad he's wearing the mask. She can't see him blushing.

Nevertheless, Fernanda regards him suspiciously. "Well," she breathes, "I'm not done with you yet!"

"I'm done with _you_!" Erik spits, still lingering by the door.

Fernanda considers him. "If you are, then why aren't you leaving?"

"I will!" Erik bellows.

"Fine!" Fernanda shrieks.

"Fine!" Erik barks back.

Neither moves.

At precisely that moment, someone knocks at the door.

Fernanda storms past Erik, opening the door. "What!"

A short, pudgy man stands there, shifting uncomfortably. "A telegram, Mademoiselle," he squeaks.

Fernanda snorts, tearing the envelope from the mailman's hand. "Is that all?" The mailman barely begins to nod before Fernanda slams the door shut in his face.

"What's _that_?" Erik asks stupidly, suspiciously regarding the letter.

"A letter, you imbecile," Fernanda snaps.

Erik seethes. "From who?"

"None of your bloody business." Fernanda tucks the letter in a place where Erik would not dare touch it—namely, in the bosom of her dress.

Erik's eyes begin to follow her motion before he wrenches his eyes back to her face.

Fernanda doesn't appear to notice, the sour expression still marring her features.

"I'm leaving!" Erik declares for the third time.

And he does. Finally.

Fernanda locks the door after him. "Good riddance," she mutters, taking the letter from her bosom, instantly recognizing the elegant handwriting of her beloved Pierre.


	17. Preparations

for my wonderful reviewers!

Chapter 17: Preparations

A few days later, Nadir is a reluctant visitor at Erik's house.

"I-I can't wear _that_!" the Persian is sputtering.

Erik frowns, "What's wrong with this costume?"

"Why," Nadir balks, "it's—it's absolutely hideous! And the mask!"

"What about the mask!" Erik is clearly offended.

The Persian throws up his hands, exasperated. "The horns, Erik! I'll look like a demon—the devil himself!"

Erik rolls his eyes. "Your point?"

"Well, everyone will think Ogdenheim is some sadistic mute!"

"It'll stop my nauseating fans from drooling all over me…er…you," Erik shrugs. "Come now, you'll be grateful once you realize how popular Ogdenheim has become. Too many lady admirers."

"No, no. Absolutely not."

Erik is quickly losing patience. "Daroga. Put. It. On." He shoves the blood-red costume into the Persian's arms.

Meekly, Nadir ducks into the bathroom.

There are several curses which emerge from behind the bathroom door, but Erik seems to have miraculously gone deaf. He is contemplating his own costume—an elegant, black, vampire costume complete with fake fangs—when the Persian timidly emerges from the bathroom.

Nadir looks as though he is attempting to hide in the red fabric.

"You look like a bloody ass," Erik mutters.

The Persian sputters. "I _told_ you this wouldn't work!" He squirms uncomfortably. "Oh! This costume's too damned _tight_!"

"You fool," Erik snaps, "stop hunching over like some fearful rabbit. Stand tall, straight. I can't have Ogdenheim looking like a sniveling idiot."

Edwardo stands by the door. His eyes bulge as he catches sight of Nadir attempting to puff out his chest like an overbearing rooster.

"No, no, no!" Erik exclaims as Nadir strikes poses. "Not like that!" He catches sight of Edwardo at the door. "Well," he barks, "what is it?"

_Mademoiselle Cosina is at the front door_, Edwardo signs, grinning ear-to-ear.

Erik scowls. "Show in the miserable wretch."

"Now wait a minute—" Nadir begins to protest

Erik shoves the Persian into the bathroom. "Stay here, and don't you _dare _make a single sound! I'll be right back."

As Nadir locks the door, Erik hides his vampire suit.

He walks into the main foyer where Fernanda is waiting. "Yes?" he asks testily.

Fernanda demands, "I need my bandages changed."

"I already changed your bandages."

"Well, your new bandages were defective."

Erik sneers, "_My_ bandages—defective?"

"Look," she lifts up her hands. The bandages have mysteriously become unraveled.

"What the devil have you done with them?"

"What have _I_ done?"

Erik is about to storm off to retrieve new bandages, just to rid himself of this nuisance, when he realizes his supply of bandages are in the bathroom. "Come back tomorrow," he snaps.

"Tomorrow!"

"Yes," Erik retorts, "I'm out of bandages."

At that moment, there is strange _rrrrriiiiiippp_ followed by a tortured groan emerging from the bathroom.

"What's _that_?" Fernanda asks, horrified.

"What's what?" Erik snaps.

"Why, that disgusting moaning sound."

Erik reddens behind the mask, "You are obviously hearing things!"

"Have you gone deaf?"

"Your ears are rusty from lack of use!" Erik sputters. "Your hearing's deficient!"

Even as he speaks, there is an odd grunting sound.

"Now, now," Erik makes shooing gestures, "come back tomorrow."

"Wait a moment—"

"Tomorrow, Mademoiselle!" Erik practically throws her out the front door, slamming and locking it after him.

* * *

Outside the door, Fernanda ducks behind the shrubbery. She's determined to get to the bottom of this! She hears some shouting in a mysterious language, and decides to take a peek through a window. No sooner does she look up, when she faints away at the sight.

* * *

"It ripped," Nadir is moaning pitifully. "I told you it was too small!" As he speaks, there is another terrible tearing sound, as the section covering his bottom pops loose, exposing his behind and…other parts.

Quickly, Nadir covers himself, attempting to hold up the torn fabric.

Erik averts his eyes, furious. "You've ruined a perfectly good costume!" he barks in Persian as he stalks out of the room. "The tailor can't make a new one in time. Now, I'll have to see what else I've got…"

* * *

Hours later, Fernanda awakens to the sound of chirping crickets. Monsieur Delavroe's house is dark and quiet. Realizing how late it is, Fernanda silently leaves to return home. 


	18. Phantastic Fantasies

Okay, my lovelies, I've been asked to update. Stayed up past 3:30 AM for this one, but will be quite busy for the next few days! They're playing a piece of mine at a benefit concert...rumors have it that zee Kraut ambassador might attend...alas, the story shalt have to wait. merci (ah, I mean) vielen danke... -- dana

Chapter 18: Phantastic Fantasies

Fernanda is re-reading her favorite parts from Pierre's letter for the 100th time.

**_… If only I could hold her within my arms one last time, if only I could have one last dance…what I would give for a moment's happiness! _**

She sighs and sighs and sighs. "Oh, how romantic!"

**_My friend—no words, no music, no painting could sufficiently describe my love for my angel. I have already written a multitude of letters to you about her, so I will not add more pages to the pile. _**

Of course, Fernanda has kept all of Pierre's letters. They're good inspiration for her poetry, not to mention…tastier fantasies.

**_You will not understand when I insist that no woman will have me. Please do not ask me to explain. I cannot. It is but a sad, simple truth. _**

Fernanda smacks her lips. "If I ever get my hands on you," she growls, "I'll make you forget that good-for-nothing—"

"Did you say something?" Johannes asks from the kitchen.

"Of course not," she squeaks.

Johannes approaches the bedroom, and Fernanda quickly hides the letter. "I'm going to pick up our costumes. Want to come?" he asks.

"I can't. I've got a music lesson with _Monsieur Delavroe_," Fernanda spits her piano teacher's name. "Also, he needs to change my bandages."

"Oh?"

Fernanda's face contorts into the sourest expression, suddenly bearing semblance to a dried prune. "Yes!"

Johannes raises an eyebrow. "Well then," he shrugs, "I guess I'll see you later." Then, he pauses, a sly look gleaming in his eye. "Oh, by the way…"

"What?" she barks.

"Herr Grout tells me that Pierre Ogdenheim will be attending the Ball."

Fernanda gushes, "Ogdenheim! He'll be there! Oh, Johannes!"

"One last thing," her cousin smirks.

Fernanda drools. "Yes?"

"He's mute. Completely, utterly mute."

For a moment, she is frozen, before shaking her head. Muteness has its downsides, but certainly nothing she can't handle. Why, she'd only get to talk about herself more!

With Monsieur Delavroe CLEARLY ruled out as a possibility, Pierre Ogdenheim—the only remaining available straight male character in this story thus far—is obviously the future love of her life!

"Oh, the poor man," she coos. "No wonder he is so lonely! Well…I'll make sure he has nothing to be ashamed of! I bet he's quite handsome." Surely, the authoress wouldn't be so cruel as to pair her (a stunning beauty) with some freak-face.

Johannes rolls his eyes, "I'm sure. Well…I'll just allow you two to have some…quality time at the Masquerade." He winks, before leaving the house.

Fernanda happily sighs. Again and again and again.


	19. Lessons Again

Okay, gang, I got lucky today. Got out earlier than expected so...had some extra time to compose (actually,de-compose). After a few hours of de-composing, I got all my work done for tomorrow!...stopped to check email, was blown away by the reviews (thanks!), so here's the next chapter...

Chapter 19: Lessons Again

Surprisingly, Erik and Fernanda have managed to get through the first half hour of the lesson without screaming at each other. This, of course, is not due to any sense of respect for each other. Exactly the opposite. It is simply because each is trying to regard the other as such a _low, base, ignoble wrrrrreeeetch!_—that the other is only worthy of the tiniest amount of pity.

_Remember last night, _Fernanda continues to remind herself,_ remember what sort of poor fool you're dealing with. _

Meanwhile, Erik is explaining the nature of intervals. _Too bad she's such a dimwit_, he thinks. _She'll never grasp counterpoint. How deliciously hopeless she'll be!_

"Yes, Monsieur, I understand," Fernanda interrupts in an infuriatingly polite manner, bored. "Thirds and sixths are consonant. Octaves and fifths, parallel. Seconds, fourths, and sevenths, dissonant. Avoid parallel motion and large leaps. Use oblique motion…"

Erik's eyes narrow. "Since you understand _so fully_," he bites out sarcastically, "why don't we try an exercise?"

"Indeed, why not?" she shrugs.

Erik jots down some notes on a piece of paper and passes it to her. "Write the upper line."

In less than five minutes, Fernanda scribbles an appropriate melody above the lower line. She holds out the paper, yawning.

Erik snatches the paper from her newly-bandaged fingers, scrutinizing it suspiciously. There _has_ to be something wrong with it! He blinks.

She wrote a melody from _his_ Cello Concerto!

Even more irritating, it works perfectly with the bottom line—the counterpoint is flawless.

"_This_," he hisses, "is plagiarism! _This_ is stealing! Shameless criminal behavior!"

Fernanda blinks. How would _he _know that melody? She thought Pierre's piece was still in progress. He couldn't _possibly _know! "Oh? And who am I stealing from?"

"Why m—!" Erik catches himself. "Ogdenheim! You little thief!"

"How do you know Ogdenheim?" Fernanda asks suspiciously. _He's mine! _Her mind fumes. _Mine! Mine! Mine! _

Erik sputters inarticulately for a moment before miraculously covering his wits. "How do _you _know Ogdenheim's piece!"

"Uh," Fernanda stammers.

_I knew it!_ Erik silently seethes. _I knew I shouldn't have trusted that miserable poet! He's probably shown the whole world my music! _

Fernanda's jaw clenches. "He's not your type."

Erik blinks, utterly baffled. "What?"

She pats his shoulder. "Trust me. He. Is. _Nothing_. Like. You." _Duh_, she thinks, _Pierre prefers women! _

_What a presumptuous little brat! _Erik snarls, "You have _no _idea _what_ you're talking about!"

"Oh," Fernanda smirks, "I _do_."

Perplexed, Erik wonders, _Does she suspect my identity? And why does she think she _knows_ Ogdenheim? What has that two-faced poet told her! How do they know each other? _

Seeing the uncertainty in her music teacher's eyes, Fernanda grins triumphantly. She looks at her watch. "Oh," she says calmly, "it's been an hour."

"This lesson isn't over yet, Mademoiselle!"

"Sorry," Fernanda spits, "but this time…I _can't _and _won't _pay!"

Erik retorts, "You forfeit your next three lessons then!" Secretly, he's hoping not to have to provide an excuse for his absence while traveling to and from the Prussian Masquerade.

Equally relieved, Fernanda snaps, "Fine by me." She stalks out, slamming the door. _Thank goodness I won't have to playhooky for the next few weeks. _

Slightly disappointed Fernanda agreed so quickly, Erik promptly returns to his Christine-abduction fantasies.

Outside, Fernanda thinks, _I'll be sure to show Pierre at the Masquerade what a _real_ woman is. I can't believe he's friends with Monsieur Delavroe, or close enough to share his in-progress sketches with the lout! _


	20. Phangs and Moustache

no time to write an author's note except to say: thank you all for reviewing!

Chapter 20: Phangs and Moustache

A few weeks later, it is the night of the Royal Masquerade.

Erik and Nadir are staying at an extremely fancy hotel under the name "Ogdenheim".

"Oh, I forgot," Erik mutters, "your moustache." He sticks on the pointy, upward-curving accessory.

Nadir scrunches his face. "Ithy," he manages with great difficulty. The Persian wears the black Dracula outfit, which Erik had considered wearing, complete with fake teeth. Erik decided the fangs would remind Nadir not to talk. After all, Erik found it near impossible to talk with those teeth, and he would have to do all the talking as "interpreter". When Erik had bought the costume, he didn't realize how obnoxiously large those fangs were, nearly going past the chin like those of a saber-toothed tiger**5**.

Erik snorts, "Itch or no itch, deal with it."

Nadir's face is painted dramatically in black and dark green, a blood-red mask partially covering his face. The cap over his head gives the illusion he is bald. The vampire costume drags on the floor. Of course, it fits Erik perfectly, who is slightly taller than Nadir.

"You ought to pick up the cloak. I don't want it getting dirty," Erik orders. He loves his vampire costume. Too bad Nadir ripped the red devil one.

Obediently, Nadir lifts the cloak as though it were a skirt.

Erik checks his mask in the mirror. As the Angel of Death, he also wears a long, black cloak with a hood that covers his skeletal mask. In his right hand, he holds a nasty-looking scepter…and is fully prepared to use it, should some IDIOT attempt to pull off his mask.

He had thought about wearing a Don Juan costume, but that would be too gentlemanly, despite Don Juan being a rascal. The other possibility had been masquerading as Darth Vader, but then realized he'd have to do the heavy-breathing thingy.

Nadir finds the moustache impossibly itchy. When Erik isn't looking, he gives a good scratch. The moustache falls lopsidedly. Nadir attempts to straighten it. The moustache twirls before resting unevenly on his face. The Persian again tries to fix the moustache but only succeeds in spinning it around. Fascinated, he looks at himself in the mirror, whirling his moustache like windmill.

Erik watches, horrified. "Don't do that!"

Nadir gives Erik a toothy smile. "Vhy noth?"

"Why not! Ogdenheim is a serious composer! Not some moustache-twirling twit!"

They walk out the hotel room, past the lobby, and wait outside, attempting to flag down a…carriage. Several coachmen take one look at morbid-looking pair before rushing past.

Erik curses, "What the devil is taking so long?"

Nadir mutters incoherently.

"Dammit." Erik stalks back into the lobby, drawing back his hood and glaring at the receptionist.

"Hotel Schniztelweinerfrankfurtburgerausbaumbuggerwink," the blond receptionist greets. "How can I help you?"

"I know the bloody name of your hotel," Erik snaps, "and you can help me by assisting your _guests _in finding a carriage, so we can get the hell out of here!"

She regards him sourly before walking outside herself, and flagging down a carriage.

There is a screech as the first carriage coming their way immediately stops for the bosomy blond. The coachman frowns, however, when he sees the costumed pair climb into _his_ carriage!

As Erik and Nadir seat themselves (Nadir picking his cloak up like a dress), neither notices as Nadir's cloak snags on a wheel.

"To the Palace!" Erik shouts.

Off they go.

**Footnote 5: **Oh yeah, check out the phangs of the saber-tooth skull image at www. ucmp. berkeley. edu / mammal / carnivora / sabretooth. html . Poor Nadir. His fake vampiric phangs bear resemblance to _that!_ (sorry I had to add spaces in-btwn the link address -- for some odd reason, it cuts off any internet link if it is presented as a normal hyperlink).


	21. Stranded

**Okay, you asked for more madness...so... (btw, I'm moving for the next few weeks, so might be updating a little more sporadically) thanx for all your reviews! I THRIVE on them!-- deranged dana**

Chapter 21: Stranded

The ride continues for ten minutes when Nadir feels the cold wind upon his ankles. Perplexed, he looks down, stifling a gasp when his eye catches the long black thread disappearing beneath the carriage door…and the bottom part of the cloak slowly but surely being unraveled.

"Erith! Thloak!" Nadir exclaims, tugging on Erik's sleeve.

Erik, annoyed at being interrupted from his scheming, bats Nadir's hand away. "Don't touch me, Daroga."

"Buth Erith!"

Something about the panic in the Persian's eyes prompts Erik to look where Nadir is pointing. Erik's eyes widen. He grabs his scepter.

Nadir freaks, "Ahhhh!"

His scream is cut short by a clunk of the scepter.

There is a deadly silence as Erik asks hesitantly, "Daroga?" The Persian is motionless, his eyes shut.

Nadir's eyes pop open. "Ha ha ha," he laughs, "Goth ya, didn'th I?"

Erik rolls his eyes, before realizing his scepter didn't even cut the thread. Cursing, he begins to saw at the string. "Dammit. This blade is blunt."

The thread refuses to break, continuing to unravel.

Noticing the robe will soon begin to expose Nadir's knees, Erik abducts the coachman from behind, his cold fingers sliding around the man's neck. "Stop the carriage!" he spits.

Immediately, the carriage stops, the coachman touching his neck gingerly and wiping off the Erik froth which has soiled his collar. It's only dumb luck he was tricked into picking up these two weirdos. The hooded one with the oddly-resonant voice is especially creepy.

Creepy Hooded Guy taps the coachman on the shoulder. "Do you have a knife?"

The coachman's eyes bulge.

"I'll take that as a yes," Erik shrugs, noticing the knife strapped around the man's waist. He whacks the man on the head before stripping him of his weapon.

The coachman slumps, unconscious.

Erik swings the knife high, pausing at a particularly dramatic moment as the extra-polished blade catches a random stage light. The camera zooms in. Meanwhile, high violins from Hitchcock's horror hit, _Psycho_,screech mercilessly in the background. Several photographers (undercover and backstage) snap pictures, no doubt to sell on Broadway to screaming phans at ridiculously high prices. After buying such photos, the phans will squish into time machines, fall through mysterious time portals, walk through magic mirrors, cram into Fed-Ex packages (which are carrying hits from ALW's Phantom of the Opera to La Jardin), or any combination of the above, to hunt down Erik for his autograph. Once obtaining his autograph, they will post the photos and write about their experiences online.

Like the merciless Angel of Death, Erik bears down on the obstinate thread.

The thread breaks!

"Ha!" Erik shouts in satanic glee, holding the black, drooping string triumphantly. Nadir gives him a genuinely-mortified look. However, this look can easily be misinterpreted as an idiotic stupor, due to his bursting eyeballs and enormous teeth.

So caught up in his victory, Erik feels like doing an exotic ceremonial dance…and completely forgets that neither Nadir nor himself have any idea how to get to the Palace.

Too bad Erik just knocked the coachman unconscious.


	22. Herr Half Deaf Meets Herr Mute

**Oh my, you guys really do like this madness! Don't worry, DracosDiva dearest, I just had to think this chapter out.Thanx for your patience! -- dana**

Chapter 22: Herr Half-Deaf Meets Herr Mute

"Damn," Erik mutters, going outside and looking at the unfamiliar street, "now how am I going to see my _precious_?" Unwittingly, he uses the same voice of Gollum from _Lord of the Rings_.

"Damth indeedeth," Nadir replies. He futilely yanks on the robe, attempting to cover his gnarly knees.

Erik watches Nadir, sourly noting that the robe now looks like a mini-skirt. Plus, Nadir's legs are really, really hairy. "You can't go looking like that."

Nadir rolls his eyes. For the first time, he's glad he's not going as himself.

A light bulb flashing in his brain, Erik looks toward the unconscious coachman, then back at Nadir. "That's it!"

"Whath?"

Erik gestures for Nadir to help him. "Here, help me."

Nadir holds the unconscious man, watching in horror as Erik bends to strip off the coachman's pants. Suddenly, Erik hears another carriage approach from behind. He quickly straightens, but not before giving a terrific yank on the coachman's pants.

"Is there a problem, Herr?" someone asks, approaching.

Quickly, Erik tosses the pants to Nadir, who struggles to put them on.

The approaching figure turns out to be a masked man in mock, royal garb.

Erik, catching sight of the stranger, is quite annoyed to find see he is a rather handsome devil. "Good Herr," Erik greets coldly from beneath his hood, "our driver is not well. I assume you are going to the Masquerade as well?"

The man looks past Erik (who is unsuccessfully attempting to block the view) and into the carriage. The stranger lifts a brow when he spots the unconscious coachman…clad only in his underwear. 

"He had a slight accident," Erik quickly explains. "Er, a severe case of the nerves."

The stranger takes out his spectacles and scrutinizes Erik up and down. "Say, that's a cheerful costume you have on. Who are you supposed to be?"

"I am the Angel of Death!" Erik declares dramatically.

The effect, however, is entirely lost on the handsome fellow. "What did you say?" he asks mildly. "Did you say you were deaf?"

"No!" Erik exclaims. "I am the Angel of _Death_!"

The stranger takes the opportunity to smile. It is entirely superficial, but nevertheless shows off his perfectly-even teeth, which have been artificially whitened by modern dentists, who were sent back in time along with the screaming phans in order to perform this unique teeth-whitening operation.

The smile baffles Erik. Not knowing what else to do, he extends a hand in a pathetic attempt at being civil.

"You are an angel?" the stranger asks in overly-enunciated speech—typical of well-bred aristocrats, or in this case, voice and acting majors. He raises an eyebrow, watching Erik from the tip of his nose. "You remind me more of that dreadful Phantom fellow who used to crawl about the Parisian sewers."

Erik immediately retracts his hand, instead reaching back to pull out the Punjab lasso...

As if on cue, Nadir pops out from the carriage, walking stiffly in his newly-borrowed (though overly-tight) pants. Although he doesn't understand any German, he recognizes Erik's murderous anger easily enough. He jabs Erik in the ribs.

Erik glares at Nadir, before muttering, "This is my companion, but he's mute. You may address him as Dracula."

"Charming," the man smiles, shaking Nadir's hand.

Erik's eyes narrow in disbelief. "Charming?"

"Why yes," the man replies, wiping his hand delicately on his pants. "And that is _Prince_ Charming to you, Herr Angel Deaf."

"Death," Erik hisses, "the Angel of Death."

Alas, Erik's voice, while sublimely beautiful, sails over the stranger's deaf ears. Or perhaps the stranger simply selects what he does or does not hear. In any case, he makes no reply, not even blinking an eye. 

Suddenly, a very pregnant, masked woman dressed as a butterfly tumbles out of the stranger's carriage. She gives a high soprano shriek, which cause the stranger's spectacles to break.

"Mute?" squeals the female, impregnated Butterfly, completely ignoring Prince Charming. "Could it be? Could it be…Ogdenheim?" She gives another cry of delight and waddles up to Nadir, much to Erik's horror.

Delighted, Nadir twirls his moustache.

Erik is doubly appalled.

Madame Butterfly gives a long, feminine sigh and breathes, "I'm such a _phan_ of your work." She grins (her own teeth a sparkling white). "I absolutely _adorrre_ your music. Why don't you compose for the Paris Opera? _I_ am the prrrrima donna there!"

Erik replies dismissively, "Pierre is quite busy, Madame." 

"I didn't ask _you_, Herr Angel of Deaf," Butterfly retorts. "Anyways, you make good company for my husband, as he is half-deaf."

"DEATH!" Erik booms with all the thunder of the gods. "I AM THE ANGEL OF DEATH!" Miraculously, his microphone clicks on, and everyone cowers (excluding Nadir, who wishes the conversation were in French or Persian because he understands none of it). Satisfied, Erik demands, "Why is Prince Charming half-deaf?" 

"He is deaf to all except _my_ voice," replies Madame Butterfly meekly. "Isn't that trrrrrrue?"

Erik snorts in disgust. It's quite clear to him that the couple is both deaf due to Madame Butterfly's voice. "Since you have already guessed Pierre's identity, might we know yours?"

"_I_," Prince Charming replies, "am the Comte de Chagny, and this is my beloved _wife_."


	23. The Phantom Faints!

**Wow, I got completely reviewed out ! Yes, you have discombobulated me -- and below is the evidence! -- demented dana**

Chapter 23: The Phantom _Faints_!

In utter horror, Erik's left eye leaps from its socket, clearly on a kamikaze mission when suddenly, it realizes it is alone. Self-conscious, it returns meekly to its socket, and is immediately chastised by Erik's right eye. Oh yes, Erik's right eye, despite being bloodshot, is always right.

Meanwhile, Erik's heart decides to puke, which causes his lungs, kidneys, and liver to groan – now, they have quite a mess to clean up. As his organs windshield-wipe away his heart puke, Erik's mouth spasms in sync with his newest composition, _Variations on a Set of Twitches_, before sputtering out and falling silent. While Erik's mouth dysfunctions, his tongue twirls like a ballerina – futilely attempting to form words.

Erik's legs decide to sprawl in opposite directions (much like the pushmi-pullyu—"If you don't know what that is," drones Professor Qui Sait Tout, "please perform the necessary research on Google".) Erik's arms droop in a useless manner. His feet tap to the amorphous rhythm of whale song.

All in all, Erik tumbles unceremoniously to the ground.

(The thud of his fall is all caught on the Sony minidisk, PBS, NPR, and NOVA, which is currently attempting to discover what makes Erik's voice sound so divine. The team of undercover scientists who are analyzing this statistical data and dissecting a variety of sound waves – sound samples from each of ALW hits in which Erik is singing – are hiding behind trees and crouching in bushes along the street where this scene takes place. How they traveled back in time is self-explanatory to the reader.)

At that moment, a bunch of ants, seeing that a gigantic, potentially delicious morsel has landed in their kingdom, try to decide how to transport it to their Queen as one grand sacrifice. They bless their gods, dance upon Erik's wig, and attempt to figure out how to transport Erik back to their Palace of Dirt. One of the Elder Ants chomps down on Erik's mask, mistaking it for sugar, breaks his ant incisors, and announces Erik is tasteless and inedible. Hence, the kingdom of ants abandon their mission and retreat disappointedly to their Pile of Dirt. But not before Nadir squashes a few in his distress at seeing Erik faint for the first time.

"What is the matter with him?" the Comte asks. 

The Comtesse merely shrugs and bats her eyelashes. "Darrrling, could Pierre rrrrride with us?" She sidles up toward Nadir.

Nadir panics, steps back, and squishes a few more ants. Fortunately, the Comte and Comtesse are speaking French and no longer Deutsch to each other, so Nadir can understand what is being said.

"It would be rude to take one and not the other," Roaoul declares.

"I suppose," sighs the Comtesse. "So, we'll have to drrrrag that distasteful phellow?"

(The Elder Ant, who had bit into Erik's mask, would agree Erik is certainly distasteful. However, that particular ant is now under Nadir's shoe).

"It is a most unfortunate situation," replies the Comte.

Nadir and the Comte manage to drag Erik into the De Chagny carriage. All four squeeze into the back. And off they ride to the Masquerade.


End file.
